


A King's Request

by nelyonelyo



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 03:15:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13332318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nelyonelyo/pseuds/nelyonelyo
Summary: Maedhros comes to Doriath early on in the first age, seeking some politics. Thingol has heard of him and would like to indulge in something first.Fic was a request, inspired by another fic/convo on the subject. Prequel of sorts to "Maedhros in Doriath"Warning: this is not a ship, nor is this intended to be sexy by any means. It's noncon or, at best, dubcon. There's sex acts in it but it's not "smut"





	A King's Request

Maedhros stood, frozen in place. The room, a large throne hall, was not cold by any means, but he was shaking nevertheless.

“Undress,” Thingol said. “Come on, Maitimo, you know what I told you.”

He did not.

Thingol stood up from his throne, took a few graceful steps closer to Maedhros, and began the process for him. “You Noldor,” he said, “are such an odd bunch. So eager to jump into fights, yet here you are, so hesitant to join in pleasure. Does not matter to me. I know this is no insult to me personally, right Maitimo?”

He did not speak. His focused his gaze directly ahead, to the backboard of the King’s throne. It was painted, and he could not figure out of it was wood or stone underneath.

Thingol snapped his fingers at Maedhros’s face. “Hey, hey, are you paying attention? I asked you a question. Are you trying to insult me by acting like this? Not undressing? Are you going to make me do it myself like some kind of servant?”

“Nn..no my lord.” Maedhros fumbled at his own clothes. Between his nervousness and his lack of a second hand, it was a length process. Both elves stood there, in bitter silence, as it took him nearly five minutes to unbutton his outer jacket. He did finish this, however. He set down the jacket and began on the second shirt underneath. Maedhros paused to look up and his eyes met Thingol’s hungry glare. He returned to removing his shirt, but found himself incapable. His fingers shook. Against his better judgment, his eyes began to water. He wanted none of this. He merely wanted his people to have a home. That is all. He thought he would never have to do this again. Fingon told him so. Fingon said Angband was over, that he was safe now. Fingon was wrong. Angband is never over, because evil is not limited to those halls.

“Why is this taking you so long?”

“It’s my hand. My hand is not cooperating. I am sorry, my Lord.” Maedhros let out in a whisper of a voice. “My hand. I’m sorry. It’s shaking. I’m sorry.”

“Why? Why are you shaking? Do you dislike me?”

“No...no, no my Lord. I’m just, I’m... I’m sorry my lord.” Maedhros continued at his clothes. He wished Celebrimbor would finish the prototype of his prosthetic soon- another hand, even if it did not bend or move, could be a great use. His stump-arm was covered in a velvet cap, rendering it useless. Successfully, he removed the second shirt, and paused. He looked up at Thingol, and saw that he was satisfied with Maedhros’s progress. His stare reminded Maedhros of a dog waiting for a treat to be handed to him. Eager, with only the slightest restraint. Likely to bite the hand feeding him.

Maedhros began on the last layer of shirt he had on, but Thingol grabbed his wrist, stopping him. “No. I want this.”

Maedhros dropped his arms to his side obediently. He wanted to close his eyes. To be anywhere but here. In his youth, perhaps, before malnutrition had plucked away his weight, Maedhros was strong. Strong enough to have struck Thingol to the ground, he thought. Even now, he thought to himself, even if he was stronger now, would it truly make a difference? He could not strike Thingol. He was at the King’s mercy, the King’s generosity. Thingol requested this. And if he were to deny it, Thingol would deny his request. The Noldor needed land. His people could not live crowded on rocky steps forever. Thingol would grant him land. He consoled himself with this thought. The land will last for hundreds of years. Today will only last an hour, perhaps. Thingol would be gentle too. He was only an elf, and no sadist at that. It would not be too horrid, Maedhros reminded himself. Thingol was not Sauron.

Thingol gently removed Maedhros’s thin undershirt, as steadily as if he were raising a too-full wine glass. Underneath was his bare chest. It was horribly scarred, far more than his face. Chunks of flesh had been taken out, leaving indented pockets in the skin. One of his ribs was no longer there. Up his side were several small, uniform burn marks, products of brands, each a signature of one of Angband’s generals who had ownership over him for a time. They never went away. They remained, like the freckles upon his face. Thingol looked at him with a mix of repulsion and curiosity. This repulsion, Maedhros hoped, as enough to turn away his touch. It was not.

Thingol moved his hands over Maedhros, pressing, poking, examining, as if he were a chef determining the quality of a cut of meat. Maedhros could not stand this, and he could not stop himself from flinching away from the King’s touch.

Thingol’s curiosity immediately turned into anger. “What” he asked Maedhros sternly “was that.” Maedhros began a “Nothing, my Lord” but could not stutter it out fast enough before Thingol continued. “You offered this to me, did you not? I asked of it, and you gladly agreed. This is a gift you offered me. Do you decline the offer? I will not take what is not mine to have. Tell me, Maitimo, am I correct in this assumption?”

“No, no my lord. I am yours. I am yours to have.”

Thingol grinned at this. “Good. I am glad. I have heard much of you, Maitimo. I’ve heard you are quite the little whore.” At this comment, he grinned.

“I am not, my Lord.”

“Orcs we have captured have said otherwise. I’ve heard you spent much of those years in Angband servicing them, is this correct? And the maia. Gorthaur. I heard he kept you at his lap, and you would fuck him so blissfully. It takes a lot to satisfy someone like that, someone who can have everything. A maia, no less. But you did it. Few elves can do that, Maitimo, you must be a very special elf. Ever since I heard this, I’ve wanted you. I’ve wanted whatever you were able to give Gorthaur. I deserve it just as he did.”

  
“I gave him nothing. He took. That is all. I gave him nothing.”

“That is not true. You know that is not true. You do not have to be ashamed around me, Maitimo. It’s quite alright with me that you’re so insatiable. Your father had seven children, did he not? Those urges live on with you, and I do not mind it. I know you have such a ravenous appetite, and it rather excites me, to be truthful..” He paused. “Look at you.” With this, he ran his hand down over Maedhros’s hip again. “Yes, look at you. Eru so clearly designed you for this. I know you dislike the name Maitimo, out of modesty. But it fits you so well.” Thingol ran his other hand through Maedhros’s hair. “Look at you. So lovely. You were not made for war. You were made for the laps of Kings and ainur. Your hair, there is none like it. You should grow it longer. How pretty.”

“I am not pretty, my lord,” he interjected. Maedhros remembered standing in front of the mirror in his tent, only a few years after his escape. His hair had grown out again, longer than when he was rescued. He had been eating well, and thus his hair was silken and smooth. The natural frizz it had was taken care of by Noldorin soaps and oils he bathed with. He had remembered how beloved that hair was. How each denizen of Angband would stoke it, grab it, perhaps pluck a few hairs. No one else besides the maiar had such hair, so bright red, so unique. It marked him separate from the elves. It marked him special, desirable. And he hated it. So, that day, in front of the mirror, he took his knife and cut it. Nearly all of it. He plucked at it. Stopped washing it. Stopped brushing it. He would not let it be pretty for them. For anyone. Ever again. He is not pretty. He made sure of it.

“Modest again, sweet Maitimo. I know your culture teaches humility, but you are not just a simple Noldo of Valinor. Be proud of what you’ve been gifted with.” Thingol said this with a sort of honest sincerity, as if Maedhros should in fact be smiling. “Now, do finish undressing. There is only so much we can do with your pants still on. And besides, I would like to see the entirety of you before I begin this.”

Maedhros undid his belt, and placed it carefully upon the stone floor of the room. He next started at his pants. They were far easier than the shirts- with the belt removed, they only took a small bit of maneuvering before they could quite easily be shrugged to the ground. Underneath the pants he wore a pair of small shorts. Before he could begin, Thingol paused him again.

“That will be plenty for now.” Thingol walked back to his throne and pulled a ribbon attached to a bell. It rang, and a guard entered the room. They briskly walked over to Thingol and gave a curt bow.

“Take these clothes,” Thingol instructed them, pointing to discarded shirts and pants on the floor. “He will not be needing them, dispose of them if you like. I will outfit him with better ones when his stay here is over.”

The guard looked for a moment at Maedhros, utterly confused as to the situation, then proceeded to follow their King’s orders. Maedhros did not look at them, but rather looked downwards at nothing, and closed his eyes. He was ashamed.

Thingol noticed this, and put in another request to the guard. “This elf here is rather self-conscious of his looks, see? Be a dear and tell him what you think of him. Boost his confidence a little.” Thingol took the guard’s hand and placed it upon Maedhros’s chest. “Lovely, isn’t he? Tell him so! Tell him what a gift he has!”

The guard pulled their hand back quickly, seeing Maedhros’s discomfort. “I have no interest in him.”

“Not even a little? Picture him, breathing heavily, positioning himself over a bench, eager to please. Does that not render your curiosity?”

The guard shook their head and departed, carrying the clothes.

Maedhros felt his eyes water up again. He did not want to cry. Not in front of Thingol.

Thingol sighed. “I am sorry about them, Maedhros. Truely. I do not want you to feel ugly here. I do not mind your scars. They are truly not that bad.” He brushed his hand against Maedhros’s cheek, wiping away the beginnings of a tear. “I appreciate you.”

Maedhros, at that moment, wished his scars were worse. He wished he was like some of the other thralls he had seen. Missing nose. Bashed in face. No jawline to speak of. But Maedhros’s fea was bright, and he was healing strongly, and he still commanded attention. Less than before, by far. But still not as little as he desired.

“Are you ready for me, Maitimo? Come closer.”

Maedhros was not able to take any steps closer. He was frozen, again.

“Come to me, Maitimo.”

He could not. Thingol did not bother waiting longer, but stepped closer himself. He placed one hand in the small of Maedhros’s back, pulling him closer. The other hand went to Maedhros’s shorts, checking for hardness. To his disappointment, he found none.

“Are you not aroused? Is there disinterest here?”

Maedhros did not respond.

Thingol lowered his voice to a hush. “To be truthful, Maitimo, I do not care if you have interest. I merely ask that you do not resist me. Comply. Make it exquisite for me. That is all I ask. A few moans would be tasteful. I am rather talented myself, after all, so I doubt you’ll have to fake them. Do not squirm or pull away. Just give this to me, as you promised.”

Thingol removed the shorts then and, with a few strokes of his hand, created the hardness he was searching for. “There. See? If you act well, perhaps I’ll treat you with things like that. I am not cruel.”

Maedhros hated his touch. He would not admit it. He would not pull away. But he hated it. The tears began to fall from his eyes. He could not hold them back anymore.

The more Thingol looked at him, the less he cared about compliance. The tears did not bother him as much has he expected. Still, Maedhros should not have them. “Stop crying. Stop. There is no use in that. You are giving this to me willingly, so why cry like that? Stop.”

Maedhros could not stop. Thingol did not know what to do, but as Maedhros’s sobs accelerated, he grew increasingly disturbed. He raised his hand and slapped him flat across the cheek. At this, Maedhros stopped. With a harsh intake of breath, he swallowed his tears.

“Good. See? No need to do that. Behave, please.”

Maedhros did not look up at Thingol. He was ashamed of himself, ashamed that he broke down so quickly. Nothing had happened to him. Nothing comparable to other hardships. Why had this upset him so? It was the years away from Angband, he decided. The years sitting in hospital tents. Listening to Fingon sing and joke with him. Eating roast meats, soft cheeses, and fruity wines. He had softened again. He used to be able to take such things without a frown. But now, the scene was horrid  to him all over again. Not out of unfamiliarity, but overfamiliarity. Fingon said this would never happen again. He believe him. He was not prepared for this to happen again. He did not want this to happen again.

“I think it is about time for you to show me what Gorthaur taught you.” Thingol placed his hand on Maedhros’s shoulder and and pressed, indicating for him to kneel. He did.

Thingol unbuttoned his outer tunic and folded it aside, leaving him in thin pants and a minty green shirt. He left the shirt on entirely but lowered the pants slightly, enough for him to take out his shaft.

It was nothing unusual. Not in length, size, or color. A little smaller than that of the orcs he had worked with, but large enough for an elf. Maedhros was quite pleased to find that it was perfectly clean. Or, at least, cleaner than he was used to, with no particularly offensive smell to it. He found no difficulty in proceeding with his routine. Hands first. The tongue. The throat. The routine. He stuck to a routine. He had done the process thousands of times, and he focused on that. It was methodical, automatic almost. Focus on the routine. Nothing more. Maedhros kept himself composed, allowing his mind to think of nothing else.

Thingol enjoyed it quite well, Maedhros noticed. With each motion of his tongue, the King moaned out in very vocal pleasure.  Occasionally, he would close his eyes and mutter words in Sindarin. Quite often he would grab Maedhros by the head to thrust into his mouth harder. It was at these moments in particular that he shouted to Eru. Maedhros found it interesting how lightly the Sindar took the name, but he did not mind. He was glad to know Thingol was satisfied with him- the better Maedhros did, the more sure he was of Thingol’s generosity concerning land to the east.

Thingol pulled himself deeper into Maedhros and came, finally, with another shout. Maedhros swallowed smoothly and remained in his kneeling position, awaiting any further requests.

Thingol stepped backwards and descended into a lounge at his throne, exhausted by it all. “If I had you here to do this to me daily, I would be a happy man. I can see why Gorthaur chose the same” he declared, sinking further into his chair. Bliss was spread across his entire face.

“My Lord” Maedhros asked “you do have a wife for this. And I cannot stay forever. I am a King just as you are, and, just as you, I have a people to lead.” He had finished what he was requested to do, and wished to depart as soon as possible. He wanted to shower and to reclothe himself. The vast openness of the hall make his nakedness feel far worse.

“Melian,” Thingol responded, breathlessly, “does not have a tongue like yours. Nor is she eternally present or willing. I cannot simply command her to this. I respect her, her wishes, and her own set of desires, even if they are not as frequent as mine.”

“I am not eternally present and willing either, my Lord. I must remind you. I am a King. I have people. We were here for the land deal.”

“Right now, Maitimo, you are not a king. You are an eager little whore, sitting there on the ground in front of me, craving some more. I shall give that to you, rest assured. I have not fully made up my mind concerning the land yet. But, then again, you have not fully shown me what you have to offer. I believed you offered Angband more than just your mouth, yes?”

Maedhros expected this. He was hoping, secretly, that his mouth would be plenty enough for Thingol. But he knew there would be more. There was always more.

“Stand up, Maitimo. And come closer.”

Maedhros did so.

“Turn around for me.”

Maedhros did so.

Thingol extended his hand to feel Maedhros’s backside. “It’s not as soft as it looks,” he commented. This did not stop him from continuing to prod and squeeze investigatively.

“Yes, my Lord. I have not regained muscle and fat yet.”

“Shame. Next time you return, that better be softer.”

Maedhros had no intention of ever returning, but he nodded along anyways. The more he kept himself from thinking, the better he handled the situation. The tears had long stopped coming. This was merely a task. A routine. Focus on the routine.

“Bend over.”

Maedhros did so, bringing himself into a bowing position. He knew what was coming. He knew what this was for. Thingol’s fingers on one hand pried at him, oily and warm and horrid. The other hand reached around, and grasped him. Thingol proceeded with firm, deliberate strokes, restoring Maedhros’s hardness. “You did so well. I promised I would reward you. Does this please you?”

It did not, in fact, please Maedhros, who would have preferred by far for Thingol to not touch him at all. He hated how his body reacted in ways against his will. He hated how Thingol deemed this a favor. He felt nauseous with it all, and jerked away slightly.

“I told you not to move away from me. I am not forcing any of this on you. You said yourself, that this was a gift to me. So act like it, or I deem your gift a lie. Remember that.”

Maedhros could not remember that. He did not want to be touched. He took a step away from Thingol’s grasp.

“No, my Lord. I retract the gift. I do not want this. Please. I do not want this. We are Kings. There must be another way for me to negotiate the land with you, I-”

Thingol cut him off. “I will not give anything to elves who treat me so rudely. Now, Maitimo, are you going to come back here and finish this, or am I going to have to call some of the guards in here to make sure that you do?”

Maedhros shook his head. “I do not have to do this. Fingon said this never needed to happen to me again. There must be another way. There must be other land.”

Thingol shoved him with both hands, and he fell to the ground. “Maitimo, you told me this yourself. Your people are dying. Are you selfish enough to let them die rather than be polite to your King for another half hour? Do your people know this? That you value them so lowly? That you value your own comfort so much higher than your lives? Who told you this?”

“Fingon said I have the right to deny things.”

“Did Fingon also tell you that you have the right to kill more of your people, just to avoid a touch? Do you abhor them that much?”

“I do not hate them. But I cannot do this.”

“You are worth nothing, Maitimo, to anyone. Perhaps this Fingon pities you. But you are nothing more. Your body is too fragile for battle. Your mind is too clouded to lead. The elves hate you, Maitimo, we both know this as truth. You are a sentiment of an older time. This is the only time you will be of use to them again. You can deny me, go back to your impoverished camps, and collectively starve to death. I am sure they would love to hear how you failed. Or, perhaps, you can come back to me and finish what you promised. The choice is entirely yours. I force nothing.”

Maedhros did not answer. The tears returned to his eyes.

“I know you are a little whore, Maitimo. I know you miss this, the hedonism, the pleasure. The Noldor taught you purity, didn’t they? And this is why you are so ashamed? Did Fingon tell you not to do this? Do not be ashamed of yourself. I still see value in you.”

Maedhros stumbled out a small response. “I have value still. Fingon loves me. They love me still.”

“Fingon loves you? Did you let him fuck you too?”

Maedhros made no comment.

“I gave you the options already. I merely repeat them now. Come to me or go back and watch your people die. Take your pick. I know their blood will not touch your conscience, Feanorian, but consider them before you choose.”

Maedhros silently walked back over to the throne.

“Good. Wise choice.”

Thingol stood up from his throne and bent Maedhros over one of the armrests. “Does this position work for you? Did Gorthaur use this one? Or should I try another?”

The tears in his eyes began to leak out. He did not respond.

“Well, I like this one plenty. We can try others later.”

Thingol’s oiled hand resumed its groping, trying to loose an entrance. It did not take long, much to his satisfaction. He slowly penetrated, and let out a gasp once fully inside.

Maedhros did not care. He reminded himself it was routine, and of the steps he should take. An arched back. Enthusiastic moans. He could bring himself to do none of these, however. He knew there was a routine. He bitterly wished there did not have to be. He wanted to be back with the Noldor, with Fingon, perhaps laughing over his improvised harp songs. He did not want to be here.

Thingol placed his hands over Maedhros’s hips for leverage and began his thrusting. Slowly, at first, then more aggressive. He let out the same stream of moans and yells as earlier, calls to Eru, groans, grunts.

The empty stone hall echoed every one of these sounds. Maedhros found it eerie, almost, how quiet it was. It was almost as if nothing existed, nothing besides himself and Thingol. The sounds were repulsive to his ears. Everything Thingol said, every noise generated from the motion of two bodies, was abhorrent. Each thrust nauseated him more.

He began to sob. Thingol was too engrossed with the task at hand to notice, and thus he did not bother to stop Maedhros. Tears ran down his face onto seat of the throne. A small puddle began to grow there, reflecting the light of the torches. Maedhros kept his eyes closed as not to see it. He did not want to cry. He did not want to know how much he cried. He hated this. He hated how he let himself do this. He had not cried for so long. But here he was, wet-eyed and acting like a fragile child. He could not stop the sobs from accelerating, and they soon convulsed through his body, coming out in gasps.

He did not keep track of how long Thingol kept pressing against him, in and out, in and out. It did not matter. He hated it. He hated Thingol. He hated Beleriand. None of this mattered. He did not have to do any of this for land. No King requests such a thing. If Maedhros had not have let himself accumulate that reputation, perhaps the thought would never have crossed Thingol’s mind. But these things had indeed happened. And Thingol was right. Gorthaur taught him well. And left him as a disaster.

Eventually, Thingol finished again and stepped away from Maedhros, leaving him dripping and exhausted. He walked around the throne, towards where Maedhros’s face lay pressed against the stone, and deposited a small kiss upon his forehead.

“That was quite good, Maitimo. Tomorrow we shall do the same. Then, however, I expect you to be in full decision about whether or not you would like to give this to me. No more of that confusion. That was horribly rude. Maybe you won’t be rude tomorrow, and maybe, with your full cooperation, I will be satisfied enough to grant you that land. Yes?”

Maedhros gave no response.

 


End file.
